Ken Follett - A Dangerous Fortune

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Micky said unsympathetically.

“I’m dying,” Edward said. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and live together in peace until I’m gone.”

“You’re not dying, you damn fool — you’ve only got a skin disease.”

“It’s not a skin disease, it’s syphilis.”

Micky gasped in horror. “Jesus and Mary, I might have it too!”

“It’s no wonder, the amount of time we’ve spent at Nellie’s.”

“But April’s girls are supposed to be clean!”

“Whores are never clean.”

Micky fought down panic. If he delayed in London to see a doctor he might die at the end of a rope. He had to leave the country today. But the ship went via Lisbon: he could see a doctor there in a few days’ time. That would have to do. He might not have the disease at all: he was much healthier than Edward generally, and he always washed himself after sex, whereas Edward was not so fastidious.

But Edward was in no state to help smuggle him out of the country. Anyway, Micky was not going to take a terminal syphilis case back to Cordova with him. Still he needed an accomplice. And there was only one candidate left: Augusta.

He was not as sure of her as he was of Edward. Edward had always been willing to do anything Micky asked. Augusta was independent. But she was his last chance.

He turned to go.

“Don’t leave me,” Edward pleaded.

There was no time for sentiment. “I can’t take a dying man with me,” he snapped.

Edward looked up, and his face took on a malicious expression. “If you don’t …”

“Well?”

“I’ll tell the police that you killed Peter Middleton, and Uncle Seth, and Solly Greenbourne.”

Augusta must have told him about old Seth. Micky stared at Edward. He made a pathetic figure. How have I put up with him for so long, Micky wondered? He suddenly realized how happy he would be to leave him behind. “Tell the police,” he said. “They’re already after me for killing Tonio Silva, and I might as well be hanged for four murders as for one.” He went out without looking back.

He let himself out of the house and got a hansom in Park Lane. “Kensington Gore,” he told the cabbie. “Whitehaven House.” On the way he worried about his health. He had none of the symptoms: no skin problems, no unexplained lumps on his genitals. But he would have to wait to be sure. Damn Edward to hell.

He also worried about Augusta. He had not seen her since the crash. Would she help him? He knew she had always struggled to control her sexual hunger for him; and on that one bizarre occasion she had actually yielded to her passion. In those days Micky had burned for her too. Since then Micky’s fire had abated, but he felt that hers had grown hotter. He hoped so: he was going to ask her to run away with him.

Augusta’s door was opened not by her butler but by a slovenly woman in an apron. Passing through the hall, Micky noticed that the place was not very clean. Augusta was in difficulties. So much the better: it would make her more inclined to go along with his plan.

However, she appeared her usual imperious self as she came into the drawing room in a purple silk blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a black flared skirt With a tiny pinched waist. She had been a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and now, at fifty-eight, she could still turn heads. He recalled the lust he had felt for her as a boy of sixteen, but there was none left. He would have to fake it.

She did not offer him her hand. “Why have you come here?” she said coldly. “You’ve brought ruin to me and my family.”

“I didn’t intend to—”

“You must have known that your father was about to launch a civil war.”

“But I didn’t know that Cordovan bonds would become valueless because of the war,” he said. “Did you?”

She hesitated. Obviously she had not.

A crack had opened in her armor and he tried to widen it. “I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known — I would have cut my own throat before harming you.” He could tell that she wanted to believe this.

But she said: “You persuaded Edward to deceive his partners so that you could have your two million pounds.”

“I thought there was so much money in the bank that it could never be harmed.”

She looked away. “So did I,” she said quietly.

He pressed his advantage. “Anyway, it’s all irrelevant now — I’m leaving England today, and I will probably never come back.”

She looked at him with sudden fear in her eyes, and he knew he had her. “Why?” she said.

There was no time for beating about the bush. “I have just shot and killed a man and the police are chasing me.”

She gasped and took his hand. “Who?”

“Antonio Silva.”

She was excited as well as shocked. Her face colored a little and her eyes became bright. “Tonio! Why?”

“He was a threat to me. I’ve booked passage on a steamer leaving Southampton tonight.”

“So soon!”

“I have no choice.”

“And so you’ve come to say goodbye,” she said, and she looked downcast.

“No.”

She looked up at him. Was that hope in her eyes? He hesitated, then took the plunge. “I want you to come with me.”

Her eyes widened. She took a step back.

He kept hold of her hand. “Having to leave — and so quickly — has made me realize something I should have admitted to myself a long time ago. I think you have always known it. I love you, Augusta.”

As he acted his part he watched her face, reading it the way a sailor reads the surface of the sea. For a moment she tried to put on a look of astonishment, but she abandoned it almost immediately. She gave the hint of a gratified smile, then a faint blush of embarrassment that was almost maidenly; and then a calculating look that told him she was reckoning up what she had to gain and lose.

He saw she was still undecided.

He put his hand on her corseted waist and drew her gently toward him. She did not resist, but her face still wore that appraising look which told him she had not made up her mind.

When their faces were close and her breasts were touching the lapels of his coat, he said: “I can’t live without you, dear Augusta.”

He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. In a shaky voice she said: “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

He spoke into her ear, brushing her face with his lips. “But you aren’t,” he said, making his voice almost a whisper. “You’re the most desirable woman I’ve ever met. I’ve longed for you all these years, you know that. Now …” He moved his hand up from her waist until he was almost touching her breast. “Now I can hardly keep my hands under control. Augusta …” He paused.

“What?” she said.

He almost had her, but not quite. He had to play his last card.

“Now that I’m no longer minister, I can divorce Rachel.”

“What are you saying?”

He whispered into her ear: “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her.

APRIL TILSLEY BURST INTO Maisie’s office at the Female Hospital, dressed to the nines in scarlet silk and fox fur, carrying a newspaper and saying: “Have you heard what’s happened?”

Maisie stood up. “April! What on earth is it?”

“Micky Miranda shot Tonio Silva!”

Maisie knew who Micky was, but it took her a moment to remember that Tonio had been one of that crowd of boys around Solly and Hugh when they were young. He had been a gambler in those days, she recalled, and April had been very sweet on him until she discovered that he always lost what little money he had in wagers. “Micky shot him?” she said in amazement. “Is he dead?”